Scapegoat
by chedevy
Summary: [Post-HBP, pre-DH] Returning to Hogwarts. A very reluctant Draco is rightly concerned about his own well-being, not yet sure whether he'd rather stay in a snake's pit or enter a lions' den. Plagued by conscience, fear and growing indifference, he remembers he doesn't have much of a choice.
1. Weakness

Draco Malfoy held his head high as he stepped into his room, an expressionless mask set firmly on his pale face. The doors closed behind him with a sharp _click_. All at once, darkness engulfed the vast expanse of the chamber, making the inside barely discernible, distinguishing scarce pieces of furniture merely by moonlight seeping in through a gap between curtains shielding a window. Draco let himself close his eyes as he leaned against the cold wooden surface, reveling in the silence that followed.

No more screams. No more cries. No more pleas . . . No more anything. He almost felt at peace – but peace was something Draco wasn't allowed in that while. No sooner than the mere idea dabbed at him, images of what had happened less than fifteen minutes prior plowed into his mind again, hot and fresh in his memory, scorching his brain like fire, and Draco's eyes snapped open. He blinked. This was a far cry from peaceful.

He needed to clear his thoughts, Draco knew – and even more so, much more so, he needed to get damned used to his screwed up situation already. He was all too well aware of his heart still beating irregularly in his chest and of his pulse not quite steady yet, and he cursed himself for it repeatedly in his mind. It was the screams getting to him, and the cries plaguing him, and the pleas just plain mocking him, and all three playing over and over in his ears, all at the same time . . . And he just couldn't turn them off - _no, please, spare me, no, no, don't do it, please, please, just leave me alone, please, don't, no, please, not anymore – _

and they were even louder in the heavy silence of his bedchambers.

As he took one calming breath, Draco was once again reminded he had a problem. A problem that had persisted and persevered, and just _wouldn't fucking disappear_, even after just about three months since it had first presented itself at the Astronomy Tower _that_ night – it just _was_ _there_. Somewhere. And Draco wished it weren't.

Conscience. It currently bothered him to no end.

His legs felt heavy as lead when he finally pushed away from the doors, but he ignored it, venturing into the darkness of his room. He knew the interior well – a desk here, a clothing cabinet there, a leather armchair further still – he knew it all by heart. Only footsteps could be heard resonating between the walls as Draco headed towards his bathroom, the Malfoy pride still evident in his stride and face, even though nobody was there to witness his feigned nonchalance. Appearances . . .

Those days, it was essential to keep up appearances.

Draco crossed the room in a few steps. As he appeared before his bathroom's doors, he pushed it open and walked right in, pale light filling the inside with a snap of his fingers. Even dimly lit, the bathroom – just like everything else in Malfoy Manor – proved to be of impressive size, and positively luxurious, with a large marble bath in one corner and a shower in another, and a couple of dark wooden, ornate cupboards in between; dark grey dominated over other colors, although the furnishings themselves were made of white marble and there was also a pile of green towels on one cupboard.

Draco found himself treading on shining, large tiles made of grey stone, each step stressed by a loud clack of his impeccable boots. The foul odor of torture he'd caused was evident in the air as it clung loosely to his clothes, but Draco was so used to the smell now he could barely catch it. There was a metallic tang of blood, and an acrid one of sickness, and he could also single out the scent of his own sweat, and yet it was all so normal it made him nod with a twisted sense of satisfaction. It meant he was getting somewhere. Learning. Maybe in another few months time he wouldn't be feeling anything at all. Maybe.

There was a magnificent mirror hanging above a marble sink several feet in front of him; Draco slowly made his way towards it. His reflection was frowning slightly, but otherwise didn't give anything away. He promptly smoothed his face.

No expression. No emotion. Nothing but impassivity and grim indifference. Draco looked into his stone grey eyes as they gazed right back at him, and then, he suddenly felt as though he wasn't looking into his own eyes at all, but into intense blue orbs of a girl a few years older than himself, who now lay barely breathing two floors below, her striking irises already as pale and faded as she.

He remembered her trembling all over and coughing up blood. Crawling away from him. She'd started pleading then, and he could do nothing more than shout "_Crucio!_" yet again, to block out her choked words . . . Again. Again and again . . .

_I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, do solemnly swear that I will bear true and eternal – _

Draco gripped the edges of the sink, clasping until his knuckles turned no less whiter than the marble beneath. That damned Mudblood and her stupid pleas . . .

She'd screamed, and she'd cried, and she'd pleaded, and she'd done every single thing the other dispensable prisoners had done, before they . . . Before. She would break soon, too, Draco knew. And her eyes . . . they would glaze over just a little bit more.

He futilely fought a visible shudder.

_Please, don't, not again, please, not again, no, please, stop, spare me, it hurts, it hurts, no,_ _no, please_ –

_. . . do solemnly swear that I will bear true and eternal allegiance to – _

A clock in his bedroom struck midnight; Draco jerked. Before long he felt sickness crawling up his stomach and chest, and all the way to his throat until he tasted it on his tongue, and with no way to force the sensation down, he leaned into the sink, vomiting the remnants of his dinner.

Stupid, crying Mudbloods . . .

Draco wasn't having second thoughts, he was not. He refused to even consider it. What good would that do, really, or what difference would it make? He would begin growing more useless feelings, more scruples, _more conscience_ – and he didn't need that. Especially, not when he'd already started learning to push the pointless thoughts down. All the way down, every time they resurfaced, because _he hadn't a choice_, even if he decided in the end his doubts were right, and his side was wrong, and . . . Dear Lord, had he really just thought that? Draco's shoulders sagged over the sink he was still holding on to. How could one even begin to question his loyalties with a Dark Mark carved into his skin? _That_ was his choice – one he'd proudly made last summer, when he'd pledged his allegiance to Voldemort, and when he'd sworn to murder Dumbledore by the end of May. There it was, the ceremony, sealed into his memory –

_I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, do solemnly swear that I will bear true and eternal allegiance to the Dark Lord, and that, as his faithful servant, I shall render – no, please, please, have mercy, please – I shall render unconditional obedience and – no, please, stop, stop –_

He abruptly turned on the tap; it released a stream of ice-cold water that hit the marbled surface, promptly washing down his dinner's remains.

. . . _I shall render unconditional obedience and unwavering devotion. _

Unwavering devotion. Draco rinsed his mouth and then splashed his face, but he knew without looking up that his fatigue was still blatantly evident on his face. He turned off the tap. His own voice still rang through his head.

_I do further swear that, notwithstanding any circumstance or change of circumstance that may arise . . . _

He'd stammered through his talking at times, Draco recalled. How could he not? There was_ Lord_ _Voldemort_ standing so close by and it was his first time seeing the terrifying wizard, and it was _unforgettable_; he remembered feeling an array of sundry emotions, varying from excitement, through pride, awe, and apprehension, to absolute, unspeakable dread – but Draco had been sure it was the path he wanted to take. It was only right.

He'd also stammered because he was in the process of taking an oath that was forever going to determine his future, and then, he'd been convinced he was a step away from obtaining eternal glory. He was greedy, power-hungry and vindictive. He'd wanted revenge for his father who had been imprisoned, and he'd been avid for the Dark Lord's praise and everything else that could have been bestowed upon him. There'd been this quirk about killing Dumbledore, of course, but Draco had assured himself fiercely he just needed to come up with a good plan. And he had – the thing was, that wasn't the problem.

Draco hadn't been aware what effect being initiated into Voldemort's inner circle would have on him, but then, there wasn't really a room for him to make a decision, either. Joining the Dark Lord's ranks was a moment he was born and raised for, and honestly, the decision had been made for him before he could see daylight. But that was alright – Draco had wanted nothing more. Developing these new feelings of regret and remorse had not been in plans, at that time.

_It hurts, It hurts, please, leave me alone, please, don't hurt me anymore, no, no, please, have mercy –_

He looked up at his reflection then; with satisfaction Draco noted his eyes revealed nothing; they still held no compassion, no sorrow, and no warmth, whatsoever. His complexion was whiter than usual, almost to the point of looking unhealthy, but the face that stared back at him through the mirror remained as regal as ever - with a chiseled jaw, pale lips, aristocratic, straight nose, and these grey orbs that held nothing but coldness. A few white blond strands had escaped from his usually slicked back hair and now clung to his forehead, wet with water and sweat. Draco wasn't surprised to observe he was sporting black shadows under his eyes, as well. Truthfully, he didn't look much better than he had in his sixth year, yet he managed a somewhat important appearance. Good; it was, after all, appearances that mattered most now.

He absently grabbed one of the towels to his right to wipe the wetness from his features, but his mind was long since elsewhere.

It was half an hour after the meeting, he was in his dimly lit bathroom two floors above the dungeon, and he still couldn't shake off the unsettling thoughts – his mind continued to envision hollow, distorted faces of people held in his house, their sunken eyes and gaunt bodies in tattered clothes. He kept replaying the pleas, the cries, and the blood-curdling screams as though they weren't just reverberating in his head, but came right from beside him.

_. . ._ _as his faithful servant,_ _I shall render unconditional obedience and unwavering devotion. I do further swear . . . _

Somewhere in the back of his mind he was still hearing the words of the oath he'd taken the year before.

_I do further swear that, notwithstanding any circumstance or change of circumstance that may arise, in the Dark Lord's humble service I shall fulfill his will and execute his orders to the utmost of my power – no, please, spare me, please, please, no – _

How weak he truly was.

He snapped back to reality. He really needed to get a grip, Draco reminded himself, as his face became impassively blank once more. He noticed, while examining himself in the mirror, that he'd really become quite adept at it when he tried – not only at keeping up appearances, but also at forcing his feelings down entirely, as though he were warding off some persistent fly. If there was anything Draco was sure of in that moment, it was that he'd learnt a lot through summer this year – expertly compartmentalizing his emotions being only one of many. But then again, he'd always been rather good at that sort of thing, hadn't he? His success in Occlumency only served to prove it further.

Draco discarded the towel he'd been holding to the floor, for the house elves to take care of, and he moved back towards his room. On the threshold, he snapped his fingers once again - the pale light that had been filling the bathroom, swiftly flooded into the bedroom. The sudden brightness before him revealed a spacious chamber with dark green walls, ebony wood furniture and a luxurious grey carpet that covered most of the stone floor below. There was a heavy writing desk with intricate carvings next to the exit doors, and in the far corner, right beside a curtained window, was an imposing looking four-poster bed with emerald, silver and raven velvet sheets. Draco made his way in its direction, his shoulders shrugging off his tailored black coat and his hand loosening his tie. He sat on the edge of the mattress and kicked off his boots; there were traces of dried blood on his soles.

_Mud blood_. Draco frowned, remembering this dirty blood being spilt and mentally juxtaposing it with the pure blood that ran in his own veins. It no longer shocked him that he visually couldn't see a difference. Maybe it was supposed to be like this. Or maybe he was going mad.

Maybe if his sixth year hadn't happened . . .

_. . . in the Dark Lord's humble service I shall fulfill his will and execute his orders to the utmost of my power and abilities . . ._

For Draco, those last several months changed nearly everything in his life – the final, unforgiving night of May the 30th, when he'd failed his first task as a Death Eater, merely proved to be a tipping point of his strenuous situation. It was now well into August, but to Draco it felt more like a year had passed since the fiasco at the Astronomy Tower – he hadn't been the one to kill Albus Dumbledore as the Dark Lord had commanded, and so, now came time to pay. And pay he did.

He'd known he wouldn't go unpunished for his failure. As soon as he'd Disapparated from behind Hogwarts' gates to stand before Voldemort, Draco could tell by the way his Master's mouth had curled into a cold smile that the Dark Lord hadn't been expecting him to succeed from the beginning. There had already been a few other Death Eaters gathered around when Draco appeared, and they were all looking at him derisively; he figured everyone in Malfoy Manor had by then been updated on how the mission had gone.

For a second he'd just stood there – out of breath from running just a while ago and dazed by a tumult of swiveling emotions – momentarily stunned. And then, without a moment's hesitation, he'd dropped to his knee.

"M-My Lord," Draco remembered himself stuttering, voice barely audible, his head bowed and eyes downcast, his entire body shivering, but he didn't know whether it was from the cold or fear or internal conflict. He only knew that every part of his body that hadn't been overcome with numbness was telling him to flee, and it'd taken all of his willpower to ignore his impulses and stay kneeling on the stone floor before the Dark Lord. He'd had his gaze set persistently upon a spot on the ground, but he knew if he'd looked around the crowd, he'd have seen his parents' pallid faces among the Death Eaters.

"Ah, and here is Young Malfoy," Voldemort had hissed softly. Draco was certain he'd had all the more reason not to look up as he'd recognized that tone – it promised pain. "One who could have been rewarded above all my other Death Eaters, one who could have been granted everlasting glory and honor . . . All if he had just disposed of a slight obstacle in our path to purify this soiled world," the Dark Lord's quiet voice was perfectly clear in the deep silence; the hooded figures gathered around seemed to be hanging on their Master's every word. "And yet, I hear you have failed me tonight, Draco, have you not?"

But Draco hadn't been prepared to speak just yet; he hadn't even been able to think with his brain clouded by fear. Luckily for him, the Dark Lord didn't seem to expect an answer, either, as he carried on talking. "Ah, yes, I have, naturally, been informed about your displeasing performance. And it is a curious story, my friends, that Alecto and Amycus indulged me with when they came to my side after leaving Hogwarts' grounds . . . Quite curious indeed. They said that the late Albus Dumbledore had been not only completely defenseless, but also peculiarly weakened whilst at the Astronomy Tower . . . And still, they said, Draco here hadn't been capable of putting the old fool to his death." The Death Eaters jeered and laughed as though they'd just heard the most hilarious joke; then, all noise ceased abruptly, and Draco, with his head still bowed low, could only imagine Voldemort rising his hand lazily, demanding quiet. "Do tell, Draco, why is that? Was a weak, wand-less old man too much for you to handle?"

The Dark Lord asking him questions was one of the last things Draco had wanted at that time; he'd been so terrified that thinking of what to say to improve his situation seemed to be an intense exertion, let alone forming the words. The only reassurance he could find for himself lied in hoping that there were no words which could help him, and that keeping silent was the best way to appease Voldemort. He'd been only vaguely aware of the mocking comments directed at him as he'd remained shaking and kneeling on the floor where he'd first collapsed, some two dozen feet in front of the Dark Lord. It was a petrifying experience; Draco remembered himself continuously comparing it to awaiting a verdict, just wanting the judging to be over. It was truly absurd that his head had been filled with such useless notions, but all rational thought appeared to have fled his mind.

"My Lord, if I may interject," somebody in the crowd had been saying.

"Ah, Severus," the Dark Lord responded, almost genially. "Tonight's hero . . . Do speak your mind . . ."

"My Lord . . . It is true Draco faltered at the last stage of his assignment. I feel, however, it would be reasonable to point out that he otherwise carried out the task without omission. Not only did Draco's idea to use the Vanishing Cabinets prove thoroughly successful, but moreover the plan –"

The voice stopped suddenly; it could only mean Voldemort had raised his hand yet again.

"Yes, yes . . . I can guess what point you are making – and your input is much valued, Severus, it is indeed. I admit I did not expect our young friend to go as far in his task," the Dark Lord confessed calmly. "The dedication you showed does not go omitted, Draco. Nevertheless . . . one problem persists, still – you have failed me, in the end. You were not able to cast the Killing Curse, is that not right, Draco? What a pity – I think there is but one way to teach you . . ."

Draco hadn't been able to help it – he gasped and swayed on his knees. He'd glanced up at the Dark Lord, but quickly averted his eyes from the unforgiving red irises. "No . . . My Lord, I . . . please . . ."

But the Dark Lord merely stared coolly. "Silence . . ." he hissed slowly. "Lord Voldemort is very merciful – you shall be spared your life. Punishment, however . . . is, I'm afraid . . . unavoidable . . ."

And that was when his payment had truly begun. With another hissed word from Voldemort's lips, the pain had hit, piercing through Draco's body like countless daggers, twisting and searing, setting his nerves aflame, and he'd been unable to help the scream that forced its way out of his raspy throat. His fingers had kept digging into the floor, almost to the point of breaking the small bones in his hands, but the screams kept coming from behind his gritted teeth, and it seemed there would be no end to the torture.

Only when he'd become aware of his nails tearing at the stone surface beneath him, Draco realized he'd fallen from his kneeling position to the ground. The cries of pain became sharp gasps, while two or three massive shudders overtook his body. He'd tried to compose himself, but it proved both entirely fruitless and quite pointless, for soon came the next wave of unbearable agony. He couldn't have possibly counted those waves – but he knew that every time the pain ceased his hopes crushed one after another, because the Dark Lord was relentless in casting a curse after curse. There had been words said, too, but, truthfully, Draco was above caring at that point. His mind was blank, his vision white. The blessed state of tranquility only came when he blacked out.

He hadn't been aware of it at first, but that horrible night was merely the beginning of his punishment. The summer following his failure turned out to be a string of unwanted lessons on killing and torturing curses. It was a summer spent on learning.

Still, Draco didn't allow himself to have second thoughts. If he were honest with himself, it wasn't even so much a matter of loyalties any longer –

_I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, do solemnly swear that I will bear true and eternal allegiance to the Dark Lord, and that, as his faithful servant, I shall render unconditional obedience and unwavering devotion. _

– not fundamentally, anyway. It wasn't faith or suspicion . . .

_I do further swear that, notwithstanding any circumstance or change of circumstance that may arise –_

. . . enthusiasm or reluctance . . .

– _in the Dark Lord's humble service I shall fulfill his will and execute his orders – _

. . . rightness or wrongness . . .

_to the utmost of my power and abilities. _

. . . Pure blood or Mud blood . . .

_I swear by my blood this undying oath –_

. . . this side or that side . . .

– _that in my loyalty I shall not waver –_

It weren't those things that truly made him act. It was the need to survive.

– _henceforth_ –

And if there was one thing Draco never had to learn to master, it was just that – surviving.

– '_till the end of time._

As he sat on the edge of his comfortable bed, so many weeks after May 30th, Draco was only starting to notice how drained he was truly feeling. He rubbed his face tiredly, frowning to himself. He supposed dwelling on unwanted memories never did anyone well, and he was apparently no exception to the rule.

Forgetting every thought about shower, he quickly took off his black shirt, followed by equally black slacks and threw them to the floor - the house elves would tidy the mess up by morning. Sleep wasn't easy to get those days for Draco, mainly because it hadn't exactly been an escape he was hoping for it to be, but this night seemed rather inviting. Merlin knew he needed a moment of peace. He needed a rest.

The slumber he fell into that night wasn't overly peaceful, however. He dreamed about a dozen of haggard looking Muggles who were chasing him across their Muggle city that was built with nothing but glass, waving their sticks and shovels, threateningly. As he ran passing hundreds of glass buildings, Draco took a look at his reflection - he suddenly realized he was dressed all in black while everything around was blindingly bright. Concluding there was no way to hide in those surroundings, he stopped abruptly and turned to face the Muggles – only to see they were already right behind him, their primitive weapons jabbing, stabbing and hitting all across his body. Draco collapsed to the glassy floor, its surface stained with blood red flowers, and all he could think about were his attackers' mad, blue eyes that kept boring into his, while the onslaught never stopped. As he lay on his back, Draco realized instead of a sky above, there was only glass.

.

.


	2. Letter

It was August 19th; morning reminded of itself in the form of an old, fidgety house elf.

"Young Master! Young Master Malfoy be expected in the breakfast room, sir . . . Breakfast be served in thirty minutes!"

Draco groaned into his pillow as Liddy's high-pitched, squeaky voice registered in his mind. He only sighed before falling back to sleep, but still the nuisance persisted. "Young Master, sir, breakfast be served in thirty minutes, sir!"

This time, Draco grumbled a silent profanity while gathering his strength to get up. In some distant part of his brain he was recollecting what had made him feeling so drained the previous night, and he took it calmly, quite used to his traitorous thoughts of guilt. But even as his mind continued to slowly go numb and adjust to the feeling, his body did not. And it showed. He was just so tired . . .

"Young Master! Madam Narcissa telling Liddy—"

"Be quiet, I can hear you!" Draco snapped finally, his patience thin. He didn't even realize he was sitting up in his bed until his angry gaze settled on the offending creature standing at the bedside. Liddy truly was a pathetic sight, Draco thought blearily, frowning at the elf – bowed posture, wrinkled skin, fearfully laid back ears and large, widely open eyes. It was probably one of their oldest house elves, though Draco couldn't bring himself to care enough to contemplate it. Liddy's bony hands were nervously wringing out the dirty rag she was wearing, as she stared right back at Draco with utmost apprehension. He threw the bed sheets off himself and sat at the edge of his four-poster bed. "I'm up, now get out," he barked to the elf. She made a low bow and then promptly disappeared, not needing to be told twice.

Draco groaned yet again. Ever so slowly, he stood up and drew himself to his full height, stretching his sore muscles and hearing the bones in his back crunch as he did so. Last night had been a three hours worth of forcing his stiff body to keep on moving, alternating between walking, sitting, standing stock-still, and waving his arm when he wielded his wand. It had certainly been a while since he last played Quidditch or did any exercise at all, mused Draco to himself, before he experimentally rolled his shoulders. He winced slightly at the pain. No, definitely not his best form, he thought, grimly.

When he finally moved from his spot, it was with caution and tentative movements, as he tried to adjust to the soreness in his body. For a second, Draco considered summoning Liddy back and having her fetch him some potion to rid himself of the discomfort, but then he decided he rather welcomed a little pain. It was a nice distraction from other things that had recently taken to occupying his mind.

His nightmares were becoming more insistent, too, which didn't surprise him much any longer. He would repeatedly wake up in the middle of the night with a mute scream on his lips, with his heart a thumping hammer, and with his skin covered in a cold sweat. He knew he trashed in his bed and he suspected he probably mumbled in his sleep. He started dreading the nighttime somewhat, Draco had realized one day. He convinced himself it was logical, reasonable; sleep was, after all, the time when one was in his most vulnerable state, when he couldn't hide his weakness, when his imagination ran wild and he had no control over it. But then came daylight and that didn't comfort Draco much, either.

So what did that leave him with? Fear, fear, fear . . . fear. He became very familiar with the emotion. How fucked up was that?

Regardless, it was truly fortunate that Aunt Bellatrix had taught him Occlumency last year, and that he was so apt at sorting his feelings. Lord knew there were plenty of those plaguing his mind for the last several months, and the vast majority of them could get him into serious trouble if Voldemort found out. Fear was alright – it resided in the minds of most Death Eaters, to various levels – but reluctance, doubt and, finally, guilt were different.

Opening the tap in the shower and supporting himself with his palms on the wall, Draco let the lukewarm water run down his rigid body as his thoughts wandered.

He wasn't that stupid to think his Occlumency barriers were strong enough to withstand the Dark Lord's attack if it came. The idea in itself was foolish and plain delusional. But even so, he could without much difficulty prevent his emotions from seeping out for everyone to sense, and that was satisfactory, provided that he wasn't looked in the eye – either by the Dark Lord himself or by Bellatrix, who, he suspected, still could probably read him like an open book, as she would never willingly let anyone have an advantage over her.

Draco doubted anyone else could penetrate his mind at that point, and the notion filled him with a sense of satisfaction. His Aunt had taught him well; even Snape couldn't deny that.

Draco hadn't noticed it, but he began to relax somewhat under the streams of tepid water that trickled down his back. He sighed nasally, a feeling of lazy contentment spreading shyly through his body. This was comfortable. Relieving. This was washing off the sweat and blood of the previous day . . . Of the previous night . . . For a moment he could almost pretend he was being purged of the sins that he'd been pressured into committing, and the guilt that he'd been taught not to feel. Freedom suddenly appeared possible, but Draco knew better.

His hands were still planted firmly on the wall before him, and although his gaze was settled upon them, it was unseeing. He blinked. His eyes focused on his left hand, then traveled up his wrist, to the forearm, and he twisted his arm slightly, and the feeling of catharsis was gone, long since forgotten. And wasn't it always? He couldn't be purged of his traitorous feelings every half week, after all. He had made his choice. He gave his freedom up for a Dark Mark, and it was impossible to trade it back. The Dark Mark was permanent – so was servitude to the Dark Lord.

Draco finished his shower lost in thoughts. He exited the cubicle wrapping a towel around his waist and no longer wincing at the soreness in his body. It was about time to put up the mask.

The clock in his bedroom showed 7:50 a.m., which meant his mother was probably going to rebuke him for being late for breakfast, yet Draco couldn't be bothered. He took his time dressing, and he spent several minutes in front of the mirror, styling his hair and putting on cologne. His black attire emphasized the shadows under his eyes, and his complexion was sallow as ever those days, but that couldn't deter him from maintaining at least a fraction of his image. It was one of those things that had been engraved deep in his mind from an early age, and one of the few values in his life that hadn't been taken away from him.

The pride in his family name.

When he finally left the room, it was with his chin lifted and his shoulders drawn back. A Malfoy at his best.

.

.

.

As far as Draco remembered, the manor had always been imposing, silent, dark, and cold, both in temperature and in atmosphere. The floor in the corridors and in the rooms was stone and the ceilings were high, accentuating the feeling of solitude that hung heavily in the air. Every room was equipped with remarkably handsome furniture and valuable tapestries, as well as sinister-looking paintings, hanging on the walls like windows to torture cells. Various Dark objects could be spotted across the manor, but Draco knew by heart which of them were relatively safe and which were not.

The manor appeared even more forbidding with the Dark Lord using it as Death Eater headquarters, and further making it his residence. The hallways were no longer as desolate, but instead tall figures clad in black robes could be seen roaming around as though they owned the land, and oftentimes the usual quiet would be disturbed by despairing screams that came from the dungeons where prisoners were held.

As a result, Draco never felt much at home in the manor anymore. He was constantly haunted by the impression of being watched, and he could never be quite sure if somebody wasn't just skulking around the corner, waiting for him to make a misstep. While that was an unsettling notion, over a span of almost three months Draco had learnt to feign ignorance and dismiss the feeling by always being on guard. It wasn't other Death Eaters that unnerved him most, though – it was the awareness of Voldemort's constant presence in his family home that literally sent shivers down Draco's spine. A natural impulse; his body's reaction to feeling threatened. It was a sensation rooted deep in him by then, a reminder to always be wary, to always be on defense, to always have a mask on . . . His left forearm tingled, and he knew it was where the core of his fear lied.

So when he strode through one of the hallways leading to the breakfast room, Draco didn't need much time to realize something was not quite right. The sense of apprehension that normally accompanied his excursions through the manor was gone. No voices at all were carried by the echo. He still hadn't met anyone on his way, either, and while the corridors didn't lose any of their ominous aura, Draco no longer felt as if he was in a stranger's home. Something was off.

He frowned, faltering in his step. Everything seemed so unusually . . . tranquil. Too quiet. Too placid.

Feelings of heightened wariness didn't leave him for the remainder of his stroll. When he finally turned the last corner and descended the staircase that led straight to the breakfast room, Draco's suspicions were further ignited; the only people present in the chamber happened to be his parents who were already seated at the perfectly laid table, helping themselves to the food whilst talking quietly. Then Narcissa Malfoy spotted him approaching, held up a hand to her husband and the conversation all but ceased.

Draco didn't bother with proper greetings, as he asked, "What's going on? Where's everyone?"

"Take a seat, Draco," his mother said with a small smile, which prompted Draco to do a double-take; he honestly couldn't tell when was the last time he saw her smile. It made her look infinitely younger, although there were still worry lines on her forehead, and she was rather nervously rotating some white envelope in her fingers. Only after Draco sat on the chair across from his father and halfheartedly reached for the plate with sausages, did his mother resume talking. "No reason to worry, darling, everything is alright – it seems the others will be . . . away from our home for a while." At her son's blank look she sent him another uncertain smile, as though unsure what to expect from him. Draco realized at that moment he was slowly drifting apart from his parents, in spite of the fact that they were not a very affectionate family in the first place. He supposed war did that to people – it changed them.

"You see, the Dark Lord has left early today again, presumably for the same reason as he did last month – well, at least that's what Bella has been telling me, and she _was_ correct back in July in thinking that he would be away for no less than a week . . . I don't know any details, of course, but according to her, he might be gone for roughly the same period of time now. The rest of our . . . _guests_," she practically spat the word and Lucius snorted derisively beside her, "have decided to vacate our manor as well. But no matter – they certainly won't be missed too severely, those people."

Draco absently played with the food on his plate for a few moments. "So they've all left and won't be back for a week," he mused to himself, surveying the slice of sausage on his fork. That certainly explained why he felt so oddly at peace after he left his room. Inwardly, Draco was relieved beyond recognition – not only the Death Eaters, but even the Dark Lord himself would be away. He embraced those rare moments when he could walk around the manor without feeling like a prisoner in his own home. He could only think of one person who was in all likelihood sincerely unhappy at Voldemort's temporary departure. "I bet Aunt Bella must be disappointed," he muttered, not even aware he said the words aloud until he heard them tumbling out of his mouth.

"Now, Draco, no need for such a snide tone," chided his father. Draco rolled his eyes at the hypocrisy; Lucius constantly vented to his wife about his immense dislike for Bellatrix. "And stop making that inappropriate gesture as well – it's unbecoming of a Malfoy, as I frequently keep reminding you. Although . . ." Lucius paused, just to make sure he got his son's attention. "I don't suppose we will be seeing much of your bad manners for the next few months, either way . . . unfortunate as it is."

Draco eyed his father warily, recognizing that he looked entirely too pleased for some reason. "What do you mean by that, Father?" he asked slowly, a seed of suspicion planted in the pit of his stomach.

Narcissa chose that moment to interject. "Well, Draco . . . Why don't you drink some tea?" Draco made no move to grab the offered jug of tea. "Oh, that's right, you have never been very fond of tea, have you, darling? My, I always seem to forget – how thoughtless of me . . . But at any rate . . . Draco – your father and I wanted to talk to you about something," she revealed at last, all the while shooting her husband accusing glances, as though she blamed him for putting their son on defense. Then, turning back to Draco, she gave him one of those careful looks she always gave him when she was about to say something she knew he wouldn't like. "There is one topic we would like to discuss with you – in fact, Lucius and I have already talked it over some time ago, and we wondered – well . . . But it will best if you just read for yourself, I think . . ." and she passed him the envelope she had been holding up to that point.

Draco didn't hide his surprise as he saw where the letter came from. "Hogwarts? What does the old bat want with me now?"

"You won't find out by staring, will you?" said his father shortly as he sipped his coffee. Draco grumbled something indistinct under his breath and tore open the envelope, but it was with much precaution. Honestly he wasn't sure he wanted to learn what was inside – for all he knew, McGonagall could be trying to take vengeance by cursing him or worse, considering all the stunts he had pulled in sixth year. Nevertheless, he reluctantly pulled out the letter, privately relieved it didn't explode in his face, and began to read. The further he went in his lecture, the higher his eyebrows rose.

"Well, Draco, what do you think?" his mother spoke when he threw the envelope together with the letter on the table. His father looked on with mild interest.

"What do I think about what?" said Draco, slowly.

"Why, darling, about your return to school, of course," she took the letter in her hands and scanned it. "Oh my, and they restored you back to your position as Prefect, too."

His father reached for the envelope, fumbled with it a bit, and sure enough, a second later there was a Prefect badge glistening in his hand. "Well . . . This _is_ surprising . . ."

Draco was looking at both his parents with skepticism. "Are you serious? You don't really _want _me to go back to school, do you?" They exchanged glances. "You remember why I left before school year ended in the first place, right?" Still, they didn't seem very impressed. Draco felt a sneer tug at his lips. "Mother, to answer your earlier question, I think McGonagall's finally gone round the bend. I'm _not_ going back to her stupid, little school."

His father's voice was smooth as silk. "Now, now, don't be so testy, son. Of course we don't _want_ you to return to school – what kind of parents would that make us? – rather, we _expect_ you to."

"Lucius . . ." Narcissa said uncertainly, glancing worriedly at Draco. But that, if anything, only ignited his irritation – she _agreed_ with his father!

"You _can't _mean this," Draco hissed, quietly seething. "I can't possibly go back there after everything that's happened! And this," he waved his hand vaguely to the golden badge that now lay at the table. "Is a bloody joke – they'd only let me have it to keep an eye on me in school, to make sure I wouldn't do anything out of line – oh, right, and obviously I wouldn't, since I'd be too busy with Prefect duties! They know why I gave up my position last year, so they must've thought if I do it again, then I'm up to something. They planned it!" his parents apparently reached the same conclusion, for they chose not to comment. "I'm _not_ going to let them spy on me – I'm not going anywhere."

"First, you will watch your tone and your language, boy," said his father with narrowed eyes, when Draco was finally done. "And second, this matter is not up for discussion. Now, I realize it might not be . . . the best school year for you," Draco snorted in disbelief. "But the arrangement has already been made, and it isn't going to change. Playing the part of a petulant child isn't going to help you this time around."

"_Petulant child_?" repeated Draco giving in to his anger. "So let me get this straight, Father," he gritted out. "First you tell me we're going to discuss things, then suddenly the matter's not up for discussion, and now I'm a petulant child? That's rich! I won't even ask what kind of arrangement you're speaking of!"

"I think you are forgetting who you are talking to," said his father stoically, though his words were clearly a warning. Draco didn't apologize, but he impatiently nodded his head in an acknowledgement that he had crossed his boundaries.

"I just don't get it," he leaned back on his chair, having completely lost his appetite. "Why do you suddenly want me to go back to that wretched school? You didn't say anything when the letter hadn't come in July as it always does, I thought I wouldn't have to bother with school anymore. I hate Hogwarts," whined Draco. "I have no idea why the old bat sent me this stupid invitation, at all, but –" but then he caught his mother's guilty look. He stared at her. "Mother, you couldn't have . . ." She smoothed her features. Draco gaped. "You _did_! You contacted McGonagall in some way, didn't you? Did you, I don't know, somehow blackmail her into sending me this letter? Threaten her? You didn't bribe her, did you? "

She wrung her hands atop the table. "No, darling . . . Of course not." But Draco didn't need Legillimency to tell his guesses weren't far from truth. "Draco, we know you're angry with us for putting you in this situation so suddenly – but I also knew how you would feel about returning to Hogwarts. You wouldn't have listened, even with – with everything that has happened this summer, you just let it go on . . ."

Draco took a deep breath and remained silent. His parents didn't understand. They wanted to ship him off to school to distance him from the Death Eater life, but that was impossible. The idea of _taking refuge_ in Hogwarts was impossible – didn't they get it? He just wanted things to be _simple_. He was fed up with changing, adjusting, adapting, and getting used to things. He craved constancy, because it was the easiest. And right when he started settling in his new lifestyle, his parents had to step in and decide to turn everything upside down. And now he would begin questioning himself again.

Returning to Hogwarts was supposed to be out of question in the first place. He woke up every day with the thought in mind that his next week, followed by month, followed by year would be spent in the manor, at the Dark Lord's every beck and call. McGonagall was never supposed to send the letter – that made sense. That was how it was supposed to be. Hogwarts was, once and for all, convinced that Draco Malfoy was the traitor, that he was on the enemy's side and that he was a Death Eater.

It was the damn _truth_. So why did his mother have to complicate things? His father had probably just been dragged into all this – or, perhaps, he'd chosen to be dragged into it. It didn't matter; Draco hated Hogwarts. He didn't want to return there. He wanted to stay in the manor and fulfill his duties to the Dark Lord. Right?

Maybe not exactly – but he would just need a little more time to adapt. Perhaps . . .

"Draco, you can be upset all you want, but you need to understand this first; the Dark Lord's mind is not very . . . stable at the moment," his mother was saying; her husband shifted rather uncomfortably beside her. "Not all of his plans are going the way the Dark Lord would like them to, and he's becoming more displeased in his lack of success, as well as in his followers. The failures are making him . . . testy. Just days ago, he punished Yaxley merely for—"

"I do attend the meetings, Mother," Draco gritted out, vexed by her admonishing. She nodded stiffly, as though the knowledge hurt her.

"That's why, Draco, you must have noticed this recent – _shift_ – in the last weeks . . . What I mean is – it's becoming dangerous to be around here," her shoulders sagged slightly, her restraint slipping. From the corner of his eye, Draco could see that his father didn't really want to have this talk – for fear of Voldemort's wrath, undoubtedly – and truthfully, Draco felt the same way. Out of the three of them, Narcissa was always the most defiant towards their Master. "Not even to mention, to be found in the Dark Lord's bad books nowadays could be truly risky, Draco, and it especially applies to our family . . . I'm just afraid he wouldn't accept another failure – and . . . I know how reluctant you've been to fulfill his wishes, and that you're not taking it well—"

"That's not true," Draco cut off forcefully, preventing his mother from speaking about his weakness. He _couldn't_ hear her say it; he didn't want to discuss it at all. There was a short pause after his obvious lie, and he couldn't stand it. "Anyway, this whole thing is ridiculous – you can't expect me to go back to that rotten school, even the teachers hate my guts because of what I'd done. They know it's because of me that Dumbledore's dead! That bloody hag can't have just forgotten this?"

"Language, Draco," said his father simply; it took all of Draco's willpower not to snarl at him. As his mother tried to take his hand into hers atop the table, Draco all but wrenched away from her grasp, crossing his arms instead. If she was hurt by the open hostility, she didn't show it, but there was a look of mild surprise on her face. She cleared her throat.

"No, I can assure you the Headmistress hasn't forgotten the incident at the end of your sixth year," she said, smoothly. In truth there was more to killing Dumbledore than just that one night – cursing Katie Bell, placing the Imperious Curse on Madam Rosmerta, poisoning Weasley and all that pertained fixing the Vanishing Cabinet. Draco just couldn't imagine what it was that persuaded Minerva McGonagall to invite him back to her school, and not ship him off to Azkaban. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever. "But it matters not," his mother was saying. "She has indeed expressed her consent to you returning to Hogwarts, and that's all we need; you are going to take her up on that kindness, Draco. You know Hogwarts is the only place at the moment where you will be truly safe."

Draco momentarily forgot his musings about McGonagall's motives. "Safe? Please," he snorted. "They want to kill me, avenge their dear, old Headmaster, Merlin reincarnation or whatever – I'd rather just stay where I am, thanks—"

"_They_," his father forced out suddenly. "Might even want to skin you alive or burn you at the stake, but it's entirely irrelevant because _they will not do it_," he drawled, clearly straining to keep calm and putting a great emphasis on the last few words. "Which may be saying a bit too much if you don't drop your childish, stubborn attitude that I absolutely cannot comprehend to understand, and stay _here_ for the whole next year. As you may have realized, the Dark Lord does not possess immeasurable amounts of patience and he doesn't take lightly to insubordination, either, especially when it comes to children. So you might want to think twice before you speak."

Draco was staring at his father in disbelief, anger and abashment, all at once. "I'm – How – Would you stop calling me a child?" he sputtered, feeling himself flush. "It's not my fault that –" but he couldn't think of how to finish those words; there was nobody else – not even the man for whose mistakes he'd been supposed to pay by completing his task, and who now sat in the seat opposite him – to blame for the situation Draco was in, forced to torture and kill people. He brought it upon himself.

He should have killed Dumbledore.

He should have pursued his mission until the end.

But he couldn't have done it; and what was worse, he wasn't sure he would be able to do it at present, even as his mind was swimming with the damned question "_what difference would it make now?"_, because he knew he was going to hell, either way. And even so . . .

Draco suddenly became aware of the painful silence that had fallen after his cut off sentence. His father was giving him that wretched knowing look Draco hated at that moment more than ever. "What do you want me to say?" he snapped, feeling the familiar flush of mixed emotions creeping up his neck again. "You can't hold it against me that I don't go happily shooting torturing curses at people whose only offence against me is being a Mudblood, no matter how much I'd like to be able to that. But I'm getting used to it, I just – I just need time – to get used to it," he stumbled, sounding more defensive and confused than he would've liked. He forced his eyes to stray away from his mother who now looked at him like she didn't know him. His father did not seem at all perturbed, though, and was instead wearing a deprecatory sort of scowl.

"Draco, did you completely fail to see the point I was making?" he inquired, visibly losing his calm once more. "I've just told you the Dark Lord does not have time to play games with you – his patience is waning, and one of these days it isn't going to be "_will Draco carry out an order or will he not"_. He won't hesitate if you anger him enough, especially now that the times . . . aren't so favorable for us. I thought you were mindful of this simple fact," he cleared his throat then. "Now, I'm aware your . . . disobedience to the Dark Lord had been met with punishment twice already," he stated flatly. Draco shot him a glare that revealed all the displeasure he felt at bringing the matter up, but quickly averted his eyes; the memories of being subjected to Voldemort's Cruciatus were particularly painful and still fairly fresh in his mind. His father merely nodded before continuing, "I should have you know the reason your punishments lasted so short was only due to our Master's leniency," Draco's eyes widened in disbelief at this, "but he isn't likely to show it to you forever. Do you understand what I'm saying, son? You ought to prioritize the consequences your decisions might bring upon you – it was always an ability you somehow failed to possess, no matter how much trouble you'd gotten yourself into because of it . . ."

By then, Draco was looking at the fried egg on his plate so fiercely it was a wonder it didn't burst into flames. Another pointless rebuke! As if he wasn't getting it almost daily already . . .

". . . And should you neglect setting your priorities straight, once again, this time could be no different," droned on his father in his velvety tones. "But you wouldn't get away with it as easily now – which you may have very well understood by this point."

Draco raised his head and merely stared, refusing to give him the satisfaction of getting the message across. His father's gaze become even colder.

"You don't fool me, Draco – let me assure you, it's rather evident you are terrified. Yet still, you persist on keeping up the pretenses and refuse to see reason, pursuing this useless stubborn attitude instead. I cannot fathom this, and neither can your mother, but we've long since stopped trying to – which is why you've just received your letter from Hogwarts, on your mother's special request to the Headmistress to let you resume your education. And that is what you will do – resume your education come September," he finished with unmistakable finality in his voice.

"I bloody well will not," Draco growled as he recovered himself from astonishment. "This year or ever, I'm not going back there. I detest that school and the feeling's obviously mutual – I could very well run off to bloody Africa and walk into a lions' den, it would hardly make any difference . . ."

That was when his father leaned on the table, assuming one of his most intimidating poses. "I told you this before, Draco, but you still don't seem to understand. We aren't having a discussion about this. You are going to finish school, and this is final."

Draco stood abruptly from his seat. "Don't treat me like a child, Father! You know I can't do this – you know what I'd done! You can't expect me to just waltz back there as though nothing's ever happened!"

"On the contrary, son, it is exactly what I'm expecting of you," drawled his father silkily. "Your mother may not care about your schooling in our current situation, but I certainly do. Imagine a Malfoy without an education . . . the humiliation it would bring . . ."

"Well that's just too bad –"

Despite his father's soft tone, his gaze was positively freezing. "I won't have you answering back to me, Draco – this is as far as your impudence goes. You don't want to make me repeat myself again."

Draco was shaking his head in disbelief. "I can't believe you're serious about this. And you just made this idiotic decision without asking what I had to say about it?" he hissed, looking from his unyielding father to his worried looking mother. "You're insane if you think I'll just – go along with it. I'm out of here," and with that, he pushed himself back from the table, his hardly touched breakfast long since forgotten. By the time his parents collected themselves after his display of lack of manners, Draco was already in front of the staircase.

"You will watch your tone with me and your mother, boy!" shouted his father. Draco, walking up the stairs, made a point of ignoring him. "And for your sake, let me state this clearly from the start – you have no say in the matter!"

At this, Draco turned around, eyes flashing, but Lucius didn't seem to be done. "You're returning to Hogwarts whether you like it or not. You'd better go do your homework," as a second thought, he added, "You may also start packing; God knows you forget plenty of things every year."

Seeing red, Draco sneered as nastily as he could, and then he swore at his father so viciously Narcissa gasped, aghast. He stalked off to his room.

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**A/N:** Right, I have to say this part turned out longer than expected... There was supposed to be more to this chapter, but I figured it's long already as it is :) Hermione shows up in the next one, and no, she's not the girl in the manor - thought I'd just clear that up!

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	3. Prisoner

The seven days following the conversation with his parents, Draco spent mostly in his room doing not much of anything.

He managed to read half a book before he got bored, reply to Pansy's letter she'd written him two months before, take unnecessary showers every five hours, and meanwhile start on another book, but generally he just lay sprawled in his four-poster-bed, staring at the silver canopy above him. The only times he left his room were basically at mealtimes, which obviously turned out to be quite an awkward affair, considering he only answered his parents' questions with indistinct grunts, or with a simple "yes" or "no", and otherwise didn't speak at all.

If his father was angry about his outburst and the name-calling the week before, he didn't show it in any way – so far, at least. Draco thought his mother had probably told him to forget the whole thing or something along those lines, but he couldn't be sure. The last time Draco remembered cursing at his father was when he was about thirteen, and that action gained him a backhand to the face, along with a few days of nasty looks thrown his way.

Nevertheless, for the time being, he was allowed peace. With nothing to disturb him and with no Death Eaters around to keep up appearances for, Draco used the blissful moments of privacy to think.

That fateful breakfast _discussion_ with his parents had put him in a very foul mood that hadn't diminished ever since. He was just so frustrated with his father admonishing him, and his mother tiptoeing around him, and with them both planting unwelcome ideas in his mind, making him question his reasoning. He felt like some animal whose cage had just been opened, but outside there only was another cage, just bigger. No matter what, he still felt trapped, he hadn't slept well in weeks, his head was throbbing practically all the time, and there was the stress, the fear, the guilt, and the deadness. But mostly, it was his parents suddenly meddling with his life, because for once, he wanted to be left the fuck alone.

He felt very much thrown off balance, and although his resentment only seemed to deepen the more he recalled that morning, he couldn't bring himself to stop.

While he believed the idea of returning to Hogwarts to be a rather poor plan to keep his sanity intact all along, Draco also came to a startling conclusion, one he hadn't considered before. He decided his mother was wrong in assuming he wouldn't have listened to her reasoning had she tried to talk him into returning to school earlier – he _would_ have listened, and he felt inclined to think he would have possibly caved in as well.

There was just no denying it; he'd been absolutely desperate at first, constantly on the edge and terrified out of his wits, all of a sudden cornered in the new world of killings, torture and consuming madness, with no exit door at all to turn to. It was a vicious, never ending circle of fear, violence and blame. He'd just wanted _out_. Even one and a half months or so ago, Draco would have probably gone anywhere and done nearly anything if it meant getting away from the Dark Lord without bearing any consequences.

However that was in the past, and while hope was an abstract notion from the start, there had to come a time when he stopped dreaming. There could be no more wishing for things to happen; in the long run he had to face reality, even if it was looking grim. He was growing numb, becoming detached, striving to block it all out. Now there could only be _constancy_ – but . .. But _now_ he was growing troubled.

For some reason or another, Draco felt thrown off balance, and he wasn't sure what it was that he wanted anymore. The concept of constancy suddenly began to seem suffocating.

He had presumed he'd successfully rid himself of the persistent thoughts of freedom, but apparently he misjudged the workings of his own mind. It was confusing and disconcerting, and his ability to sort out his feelings was failing him, and it was all because of a single conversation with his parents. There was just so much insecurity that emerged out of the blue, catching him unawares . . . His own unexpected uncertainty made him feel like crying, but he would be damned if he gave in to a display of such a strong emotion again. Slowly, he drew in a deep breath and exhaled. There were boundaries he daren't cross anymore, or else all his efforts to hold himself in check would prove to be in vain.

This was why he hated thinking about those things – his bad mood was steadily getting worse, and he was developing a headache as well. Muttering darkly, Draco rolled off the bed and onto his feet, strode over to the bookcase in the corner of the room and grabbed the nearest book off the shelf, before backtracking to his bed again. Only when he flopped back on the mattress did he actually pay the title any heed. _Dark Activities and Illegal Practices since Ancient Times; _Draco narrowed his eyes as he took in the words on the cover. For someone who wanted to occupy himself by reading just to create a distraction from his "dark activities", it truly was ironic to be met with a book on that subject. In the end, though, he decided it would have to do. Taking care not to damage the old, fragile pages, Draco opened the tome and focused on the first page.

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* * *

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Hermione Granger was not an impatient witch – in fact, one could say she was anything but. Never had she had any trouble talking to the most reluctant and apprehensive first years, or had any complaints about being appointed to tutor even the least capable students. By no means had she ever lacked dedication, precision, or endurance. She could spend hours on end writing series of laborious essays and not even come close to growing bored. When faced with a mystery, she worked diligently yet efficiently to solve it, and she'd _always_ succeeded. She'd always_ known_ she would succeed.

Patience was, therefore, a virtue Hermione had always prided herself in.

But this . . . But _this_ _now_ was different. This was pure insanity.

Hermione flicked frantically through the old, fragile pages of the massive book that lay on the table before her, her eyes gliding rapidly over the words. _Nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing_ . . . Nothing of importance. There was just no information she needed to find, and the fact was slowly making Hermione edgy. Here was yet another awful book she compelled herself to read, to study closely, and the effort was, once again, proving to be fruitless, as she didn't learn anything she hadn't already known. She wanted to cry at the unfamiliarity of it all, but she hadn't lost all hope just yet. _Dark_ _Activities and Illegal Practices since Ancient Times_ was a large tome and there were still many pages left. She turned the next one.

Next one. Next one. Next. Next. Next, next, next . . .

Researching Horcruxes turned out to be a much, _much_ more difficult task than she had initially imagined. In most of the books she'd come across, the mentions of the nefarious objects, if any at all, were scarce and largely unhelpful, often merely worded as "_too gruesome and too dark to speak of_". So far, this upsetting notion was the reason Hermione was for the first time rendered unable to prove that books had answers to anything and everything, and such a predicament, in turn, was basically what brought her to the state she currently found herself in – hunched above a massive book on Dark magic, impatient and in denial, biting her nails in frustration. Horcruxes. She'd spent half the summer delving into the subject, and still the term hardly meant anything to her at all.

So engrossed was Hermione in _Dark Activities . . ._ that momentarily she'd forgotten she wasn't alone in the room; only a voice from somewhere to her right brought her back to reality.

"Got anything interesting?" asked Ron, smothering a yawn. Hermione exchanged a glance with Harry, who sat opposite her, stooped above another book, before both their shoulders sagged dejectedly and they turned back to Ron, shaking their heads no. Wordlessly, the three of them went back to reading, each hoping to stumble upon some relevant information.

After July 27, when the plan of "Seven Potters" worked faultlessly and Harry was moved from Little Whinging without incident, the Weasleys, Hermione, and the Chosen One himself were all back in The Burrow. It was now almost four weeks since Bill and Fleur's wedding on August 1; the initial air of careless merriment that surrounded the household following the celebration had gradually started to dissipate, and things were going back to normal. The carelessness grew to be caution and determination to lend assistance to the Order of the Phoenix, while the cheerfulness changed into grim awareness of the war which had already been announced with Dumbledore's assassination.

Hermione took a surreptitious look at the bespectacled boy in front of her as she allowed herself a moment of distraction. Although they were all affected by the Headmaster's departure, it was unsurprisingly the Boy-Who-Lived whom that event damaged the most. He was still grief-stricken and bent on exacting revenge not only on Snape, but mostly on the creature responsible for unleashing the very war that had only just truly begun raging around them, but he was no longer looking for a chance to slip out and go on with the mission he'd been entrusted with.

Hermione remembered how in the first month after Dumbledore passed away Harry insisted on setting out immediately to hunt down Voldemort's remaining Horcruxes, claiming it was only steps away from the Dark Lord taking the reins of the Ministry and, subsequently, reigning the magical Britain. However, as they soon found out, that turned out to be just a pessimistic assumption; the Order of the Phoenix, with Kingsley Shacklebolt as the new leader, managed to take enough control of the situation to ensure the Ministry wasn't going to be overthrown any time soon. After Shacklebolt contacted Rufus Scrimgeour and guaranteed him extra protection, the Minister, having seen no alternative other than pretending the war had never begun, grudgingly agreed to start secretly cooperating with the Order.

Among other things, the Minister's new stance hugely influenced the press; the articles in the _Daily Prophet_ no longer kept up the pretense of peace, but instead aimed to ensure the readers were aware of the danger, yet the mentions were subtle as not to stir unnecessary panic. Meanwhile, Alastor Moody had been selected to be in charge of interrogating any wizard or witch known to possess knowledge of the enemy's plans, whilst Shacklebolt himself became Scrimgeour's personal adviser.

These changes hadn't instantly brought peace to Wizarding Britain, but in three months' time they turned out to be changes for the better, as well as precautions for the future. In consequence, the Order seemed to be a step ahead of the Death Eaters. This notion had a significant impact on Harry's decision to prepare for the war beforehand, instead of recklessly rushing out to find and destroy the Horcruxes. Although both Hermione and Ron assured they would have followed Harry whenever he had decided to leave, the three of them agreed they still had a lot to learn. The fact that Voldemort believed himself to be the only one who knew about the Horcruxes also worked to their advantage, and they planned to leave it that way, at least for the time being.

All the same, Harry, Ron, and Hermione continued their research steadfastly.

Currently seated at a makeshift table in Fred and George's former room, they huddled together in a small space with a heap of books Hermione had summoned from Dumbledore's office at the end of their sixth year. The table was really a transfigured flowerpot, and the chairs they sat on had been nicked from other rooms and creaked with every movement, but they had decided it would be safer to have everything in one place – that way it was easier to hastily stow the books back into Hermione's handbag in case they heard somebody approaching.

Which brought to mind another issue: the Order was still oblivious to the existence of the Horcruxes. The matter had been rather thoroughly considered by the trio, however Harry was adamant about not letting anyone else discover the Dark Lord's secret. "Nobody but us can know," he'd told Hermione and Ron when they mentioned it. "Look – if we tell Kingsley or Moody, the whole Order is bound to be on it in no time. They'll want to make sure it's true first, so they'll be making some extensive research, and when they finally start digging, Voldemort's already going to be aware of it – think about it, the more people know, the higher the chance Voldemort will figure us out. And besides, I don't want anybody else in danger because they'll be doing my job – Dumbledore entrusted _me_ with it."

After that, they hadn't addressed the subject anymore. Upon receiving letters from Hogwarts in mid-July, they had consented to continue their quest there, whilst subsequently preparing to face the Dark Lord in the imminent future. Although the reopening of Hogwarts in the circumstances of incipient war had initially been something of a surprise and alleviation to them, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were still in a rather privileged position when it came to information. Staying at the Burrow, which was the Order's new headquarters, they had occasionally come across Professor McGonagall, at which point they wasted no time in proceeding to ask her about any changes that might occur in the upcoming school year, considering the conditions. Despite her reluctance to divulge any details, the Headmistress did eventually reveal in clipped tones that safety measures had been reinforced, and that a more practical approach was going to be taken in lessons so that the students could exploit their knowledge during the times of war.

Hermione couldn't help at that instant but think they were going to undergo some sort of a brief soldier training starting September. That impression more than anything had made her realize how seriously Professor McGonagall was taking the situation if she wanted to prepare children for what was indubitably to come – granted, nothing drastic could have been planned, but Hermione expected an emphasis was going to be put on self-defense, and maybe some extra courses like healing would be held.

In spite of everything, she awaited the beginning of school as she had each summer in the past six years. Despite the pressure caused by the Horcruxes that weighed down on her like a bag of bricks, she had managed to finish all homework, and she also found a moment to acquaint herself with some of her seventh year textbooks in spare time. She wasn't exactly sure how Harry and Ron were coping with their homework as they never seemed to give a distinct answer whenever she asked, but then, she had a few guesses.

A tapping sound could be heard across the room, and Hermione's thoughts drifted back to reality. As she looked towards the source of the noise – an owl perched outside the window – she leaped from her chair and walked over to it, Harry and Ron peering over their books.

"It must be today's _Evening Prophet_," Hermione explained to them, opening the window. She slipped a knut into the pouch tied to the owl's leg, and the bird flapped its wings before flying away; Hermione retreated to the table with the newspaper in hand.

"I didn't know you were getting the evening edition," said Harry, rubbing his neck to rid it of some stiffness.

Hermione's fingers were already browsing through the pages. "I thought we should keep track of Voldemort's moves this year at Hogwarts, so I subscribed to all three editions of the _Prophet_," she said absently, making herself comfortable on her chair again. "And seeing that it's only days from school, I did it beforehand – oh, and by the way, if you still haven't done your homework yet, I feel obliged as—"

"Any news in the paper?" asked Ron hastily. Hermione fixed him with a haughty glare, knowing full well he was intently trying to change the subject, but she refrained from reminding him of the importance of school duties – the admonishment would obviously fall on deaf ears. As she turned another page of the _Prophet_, a small picture of a young woman caught her eye, a headline above it saying, _GONE WITHOUT A TRACE – DEATH EATERS STILL ON A PROWL!_

Hermione read through the article quickly, feeling a blanket of melancholy and gloom settle over her heart. In those dark times, it was nothing new for Hermione to experience such emotions – the war was brewing throughout Britain and it was starting to collect its toll. It was only just a beginning; more violence was to come.

"Hermione? Anyone we know?" said Ron, indicating to the paper she was still holding; she put it away on the table.

"Yes . . . well, I suppose," she said slowly with a one-shouldered shrug. The boys frowned, and Harry leaned over the table to take the _Prophet_ in his hands. "If you remember over a week ago there was an article about another kidnapping – Polly Clithrow, a Muggle-born – she'd been assaulted in her own home. It's been many days, and now they just announced she still hasn't been found, so they assume she's already – dead," she paused for a moment. "I remembered her from Hogwarts."

"Oh . . ." said Ron, looking uncomfortable. "So you . . . knew her?"

"I can't really say I knew her per se," said Hermione, shrugging a little again. "She was a few years ahead of us, in Hufflepuff or Revenclaw, I think, and I don't think I ever actually spoke to her. But I remember her face – and it's really sad to know someone you went to school with may be . . . no longer here – or that something terrible can be happening to her right now."

"I don't really recognize her," frowned Ron, looking over Harry's shoulder at the woman's picture.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," said Hermione. "Like I said, she was older, and in a different house."

"You said her name's Clithrow? Yeah, I think Dad's mentioned it – there's a man called Clithrow in his Department whose daughter's gone missing. Dad said they've got a lot of work these days at the Ministry, 'cause Mr. Clitrow asked for a leave, and they're short a person."

"The entire Ministry in general's been rather busy, though, hasn't it?" remarked Harry, thoughtfully. "I mean, with Voldemort planning to overtake it, they haven't really got a choice – but the Death Eaters are getting bolder, too, the raids are becoming more frequent . . ."

Hermione was staring gravely at Crookshanks who had just curled up beside the fireplace; the light was making the cat's ginger fur glow. "They probably just want to appear as though they're in control of everything, and not on the losing side of the war. And it is quite effective, isn't it? People are terrified for themselves and their families, even if Voldemort is really on a disadvantage at the moment. I suppose Hogwarts is going to be quite desolate this year because of it all."

"Yeah," said Ron, "Harry and I actually talked about it some time ago, all that's been happening recently, plus Dumbledore's – well, you know . . ." he glanced uneasily at Harry, knowing Dumbledore's death was still a sensitive matter for The Chosen One. But Harry merely shook his head exasperatedly, saying, "Oh, go on, I won't burst out crying . . ."

"Right . . . Well, if you mix all that together, obviously not many parents will want to send their children back to school. We wondered if half will return."

They fell into a pensive silence, only disrupted by the flames crackling merrily in the fireplace. Then Hermione raised her head haughtily and lifted an eyebrow, "While we are on the subject of school," she began, strongly resembling Professor McGonagall; Harry and Ron both groaned, suspecting what was coming. "I really advise you two to get down to your homework, as I'm fairly certain you haven't nearly finished it. As the new Head Girl, I do feel responsible for our house's presentation this year, and as such I wouldn't want the teachers to take points from you, if it can be avoided."

Her friends were both looking pointedly away, seeming very interested in the cracks on the ceiling. Hermione rolled her eyes. "So I was going to offer to help you with it, since my position only starts taking effect on September 1."

Eyeing the boys, who were now grinning widely, Hermione sighed. She'd probably just signed up for writing one more dozen essays.

As she engaged in another friendly banter with Ron for some following minutes, neither of them noticed Harry reaching to his forehead and rubbing it absently. His scar had just prickled.

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* * *

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In his bedchambers of Malfoy Manor, Draco almost dropped his book. Without thinking, he snapped shut _Dark Activities . . ._, tossed the antique tome aside, and swung his legs off the bed, all the while casting quick glances around his bedroom, searching. Having not found what he was looking for right away, he impatiently walked over to the closet cabinet on the other end of the room, and forcefully drew the biggest door aside with a loud clatter. His heart was beating faster than normal as he raked through the contents of the closet, and finally, after no more than a few seconds, he extracted a fine black coat, matching the color of his entire attire.

He slid the door back, trying to steady himself.

He was being stupid, he knew. There was no need to get so anxious like a ten year old. He forced himself to inhale and exhale deeply through his nose, and somehow his heart rate seemed to be slowing down, but still there was nothing he could do about the apprehensive feelings that suddenly started flooding his mind.

The semblance of peace had been shattered. He'd known it was going to happen one of these days.

The Dark Lord was back in the manor, and Draco's arm burned in response to his calling.

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_I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, do solemnly swear that I will bear true and eternal allegiance to the Dark Lord, and that, as his faithful servant, I shall render unconditional obedience and unwavering devotion. I do further swear that, notwithstanding any circumstance or change of circumstance that may arise, in the Dark Lord's humble service I shall fulfill his will and execute his orders to the utmost of my power and abilities. I swear by my blood this undying oath that in my loyalty I shall not waver, henceforth, 'till the end of time. _

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"Wormtail, I trust our only prisoner left is faring well?"

The voice that spoke was cold, smooth, and perfectly clear in the reverent silence that took up the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. The chamber was immersed in semidarkness, only illuminated by the flames dancing vividly in a fireplace, dipping the surroundings in a mixture of heavily contrasting highlights and shadows. In the centre of the room was a long table by which more than a dozen people sat, all dressed in black, currently glancing from the head of the table to a man sitting midway down it.

"Y-Yes, my Lord," answered Wormtail, instantly beginning to fidget in his chair. "Perfectly . . . Fed yesterday morning, my Lord . . ."

The Dark Lord acquired a contemplative quality to his voice as he said, "That may not have been very necessary . . . Although we will see for ourselves, will we not? Bring the vermin here, Wormtail."

The short, wheezing man hastily slipped from his seat and left the chamber, disappearing behind a heavy wooden door. The remaining occupants of the room all turned their eyes back to the tall figure of Voldemort, though nearly none of the Death Eaters seemed to be looking their master straight in his snake-like face.

"We shall see, indeed," carried on the Dark Lord in his thoughtful tones, "whether this parasite, which has been feeding on our knowledge and thieving us of our magic, even going as far as using it against us, will still dare to deny it and persist on talking nonsense. One would think the punishment during our last meeting was a sufficient lesson . . . though," he paused, the entire time looking somewhere at the ceiling, "one can never expect defective animals to learn where their place is. One can only rid the world of such animals before the defect propagates further. . ."

Draco repressed a shudder; he always found there was something strangely eerie in the way the Dark Lord talked at the meetings, as though he were only speaking to himself, all the while concealing some dark secret from the outside. It was in all likelihood an understatement, though – the Dark Lord was bound to have many secrets, and none of them were likely to be innocent. He had absolutely no reason at all to confess his thoughts to anyone, probably much to Bellatrix and Snape's disappointment, who, Draco supposed, both wanted to believe they were each an exception. Glancing towards the head of the table where Snape sat at the right-hand side of Voldemort, Draco put up his Occumency barriers, just in case.

Snape who wanted all along to steal his glory, Snape who put his family at odds with the Dark Lord, Snape who had usurped his father's position . . . Snape who was now looking back at him with dark, unreadable eyes. Draco kept the eye contact unblinkingly for three seconds before turning away.

His parents sat at either side of him, all three of them tense, pale, and trying to maintain indifference, but Draco couldn't stop his gaze from wandering in an act of nervousness. At last, the door to the room opened loudly, and in came Wormtail, dragging with him a young woman who was trying to pry his hand of her arm. Her clothes were torn and dirty, hanging on her lithe body like rugs, and her skin was smeared with grime, blood and sweat, a nearly wild expression twisting her face as she realized where she was. The Death Eaters at the table were gazing at her curiously, some leaning out of their chairs to see better, and some snickering under their breaths.

"Stop struggling . . . Keep walking, you stupid girl, keep walking," Wormtail urged the woman, pushing her forward; but as soon as Wormtail removed his hand from her upper arm, her knees seemed to give in and she collapsed in front of the table, looking haggard, forlorn, and frightened. Draco suspected she could be no more than three or four years older than him; technically, she might have been his schoolmate from Hogwarts at one point, but if that were true, he couldn't have paid her much attention, since he didn't remember her. She kept whispering something fervently to herself, and although Draco couldn't hear clearly because of the people around him who had erupted in jeers, he could make out some single words:_ "_please", "not again", "monsters".

The Dark Lord waved his wand and the door closed behind her and Wormtail with a click.

"Enough," he said to the jeering crowd; they fell silent at once. "You may resume your seat, Wormtail . . . Now . . . I believe you all remember our guest from a little over a week ago, however brief and unmemorable encounter it may have been. This Mudblood, like many others, appeared to have had some rather absurd ideas about her place in our world . . . In fact, she claimed to belong in it."

There were a couple of derisive snorts across the table as the Death Eaters expressed their distaste. The Dark Lord rose lazily from his chair then, and noiselessly, he began to walk towards the young woman on the floor, making her wind her arms around herself in a defensive manner, her head tossing from side to side, as though looking for a way to escape. But Draco knew there was none. The girl would die today, and he would have to watch with a blank face – or even contribute to her death.

"Yes," continued Voldemort, stopping some twenty feet away from the prisoner; she instantly scrambled further away. "This filthy Mudblood insisted on lying and claimed to be a witch. Such disgraceful mendacity . . . A tendency, it seems, inbred for her kind, rather than taught, seeing that they never appear to let it go. But we shall make certain no more such absurdity leaves her mouth again, shall we not? Maybe . . ." his eyes wandered to the Death Eaters at the table, regarding them closely, cold and calculating; the air was immediately thicker with tension as half the Dark Lord's servants wished to be granted the honor of administering justice on the Mudblood, but Draco froze when he felt the gaze settle on himself. "Draco . . . Maybe you could see to it."

He didn't need to look up to know the Dark Lord was smiling. The breath he hadn't known he was holding suddenly left his lungs, but it definitely wasn't a sigh of relief. Belatedly, he said, "Yes, my Lord," and stood up, stiffly, not daring to look at either of his parents, fearing what they might see in his eyes if he did. He'd somewhat expected this to happen, he was used to his name being called by that cruel voice, but apparently not yet accustomed to what it did to his mind.

"Yes, come forward, Draco . . . And now, show this scum where it truly belongs."

It was that smooth, cold voice that made him numb again.

As Draco extracted his wand and approached her, the girl, still on all fours, was trying to back up as far as she could, but she was already up against the wall. Her head was shaking frantically the whole time, her cheeks flowing with tears, and her mouth mumbling the same words over and over again, the words he knew well . . .

"No, no, no, stop it, stop, please, don't do it, please, spare me, I beg you, stop, stop, don't come near me, don't . . ."

But he knew he had to, or else he would take her place on that stone, cold floor. It was a simple matter of survival at that point – torture or be tortured, kill or be killed. Follow the orders without a question. He was not noble, nor did he try or want to be. It was never in his nature to go against his better judgement, and anyway there was too much at stake to waver, to show indecision, to let any of his doubts take over his mind. His father's words resounded harshly in his head, "The Dark Lord does not have time to play games with you . . . his patience is waning . . . He won't hesitate if you anger him enough,"and he knew them to be true.

He just wished this girl didn't talk to him while he did the Dark Lord's bidding. Yet her pleading was growing louder, and so did her sobs.

"Please, please, don't, don't hurt me, please, don't do it, just leave me alone, please . . ."

_I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, do solemnly swear that I will bear true and eternal allegiance . . ._

"_Crucio_ . . ."

The word had left his lips before he could realize he'd said it. But the girl was already screaming and writhing on the ground, her eyelids clamped tightly together, the tears still rolling down her pain-contorted face. Draco kept his eyes on her the whole time, but he was trying to see through her, rather than look at her; it was easier that way. It was doable, too. But then, there were the screams, and they made everything worse. The screams, the whimpers, and the pleading – shutting those off always proved to be more complicated, more challenging, since they echoed in his head even if there was no sound at all, even if everything outside of was quiet.

Currently, they were very much real, but that didn't help his case at all.

"Enough, Draco," the Dark Lord finally said from somewhere behind him, and Draco jerkily lowered his wand; the girl's screams predictably turned into soft whimpers. At that moment Draco thought she really did look like a hurt animal – dirty, broken, abandoned, and bereft of hope. He had caused this. He wondered briefly why that notion would make him feel anything other than satisfaction, but then he forced himself to stop thinking. The Dark Lord was now strolling leisurely some several feet away, and Draco knew even with his back turned that he was surveying the girl as if calculating the damage that had been done to her. Apparently it was not visible enough, "Continue."

And he did.

It took three turns before she started begging for death. It wasn't the first time Draco had been on the receiving end of such words, and so he just waited for the Dark Lord to make a decision: grant the Mudblood's wish or make her suffer further. He recalled ten days ago she hadn't begged, and thought that she must have hoped that she would escape or be saved. Obviously, she had been wrong.

"Yes, this is enough," Voldemort said easily, and started retreating to the table. "Kill this scum."

He ignored the fact that his stomach had just reeled in horror at the command he had heard many times before. He told himself he should feel relieved, thankful even – there had only been the Cruciatus while the Dark Lord could have ordered him to use so many other Dark curses on the girl, the effects of which would have been a lot more graphic. There had been no bloodshed, no smell of scorched flesh, no bones breaking, and no limbs falling off due to rapid decay. The torture hadn't lasted too long, and all that was left now was to get it all over with.

_I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, do solemnly swear . . ._

Looking in the defeated blue eyes of the girl curled on the floor, Draco swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. He would deal with the guilt later. He wouldn't reflect on what it meant.

So he did what everybody had expected him to do. There were two words said in a voice that was undoubtedly his, a quick flash of green light, and finally a quiet thud as the already dead girl's head connected with the ground. The torture was over, and, somehow, Draco felt as though he had just ran a mile. He could tell the session wasn't only meant to be agony for the Mudblood, but for him as well. Evidently his failure at the Astronomy Tower wasn't going to be forgiven easily since the Dark Lord still appeared to see it fit to extract retribution from him.

At some point when he was already seated back at the table with the rest of the Death Eaters, and when the girl's cold body had long since been disposed of by Wormtail, Draco started wondering whether coping with vengeful students at Hogwarts could actually amount to coping with the multitude of treacherous emotions he felt every time he was made to torture or kill a person. Perhaps it couldn't. Perhaps his father was right in thinking he was being deliberately stubborn in his refusal to accept the truth, but even so, Draco didn't find it so simple. It was a matter of whether he was willing to give up his realm of constancy, which he had worked long and hard to build, for a foreign land belonging to unfriendly people. It would be entering the enemy's grounds; was he desperate enough to resort to that?

But then, he already knew the answer. His desperation ran as deep as it had one and a half months ago, and he really did blame his parents for planting this mad idea in his head.

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**A/N:** Sorry for the delay! This chapter gave me some trouble, but now that it's finally up, we're nearing the main plot of the story :) Thanks for reading, and feel free to review, I love those!

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